


Baby Brother

by thecattydddy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Character Death, Child Neglect, Depression, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7797928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecattydddy/pseuds/thecattydddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marcello's mother dies, he must go live with his two brothers who he has never met, but has heard more than enough about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Brother

**Author's Note:**

> So, a bit ago I thought it'd be kinda interesting to try a story in first person since I rarely ever write them like that. While an interesting experience, I find that I'm not a big fan of the style and, because of this, will probably not be continuing this story.
> 
> Just so you guys are aware of the kinds of direction this was headed, here are a few things I had considered for this story in later chapters: Romerica, Gerita, Seblossia, drug use, near death, Rome, high school drama, a hell of a lot of Italian, eventual recovery.

There’s a certain emptiness one feels when they lose a parent, as if their insides have just been scooped out and they are left a shell of their former self. As much as I wish I could have said that that feeling was caused by grief or sadness, I honestly don’t know. There’s too much to pin it down really and everything I want to feel just has swirled into one hazy blank. Maybe I am sad they are gone. Maybe I am relieved that it is over. Maybe I am wondering what is wrong with me to feel this way.

There’s a gentle drizzle going on outside the car, rain drops pattering softly against the glass that holds me within. It never is a sunny day when you are mourning, for some reason. It is as if the world mourns with you. Or maybe it is mocking you. I could never really tell. Sometimes, those things feel much the same, especially if you are too confused to seek out the differences.

The driver gives me a soft, reassuring smile from the front seat, his blue eyes kind. Francis, he said his name was. A french man, whose life was dedicated to helping people. Whose heart poured out love and whose eyes rang with sadness. I saw a little bit of myself in those eyes, but I could not bring myself to make that smile. Everything was still so numb.

They said that I had brothers, two of them who lived together six hours downstate from our mother’s home. They had gone to live with our grandfather at an early age, years before I’d even been born. I’d seen pictures of them as infants that our mother kept in her nightstand. Sometimes, when she was in a good mood, she would pull the picture out and pull me into her lap and show it to me before her tears came and she would have to call upon her usual coping method. Often she would call me names of boys I’d never met. I’d learned to respond to them and their slurred variants when she couldn’t quite pronounce them properly.

I remember being told I was not the sons she wanted. I remembered being told I did not make a good replacement as she cried into her glass.

They told me I had two brothers when she had fallen victim to her own unresolved hardships, but I had already known. They said that she had put in place long ago that I would go to them, should she ever pass away. They said that it would be good for me to be with family in this hard time, but I did not consider them any more family than I would a storybook character. They were ideals to live up to, not flesh and blood. Francis stopped pretending to smile at some point, which made me feel a little sadder in turn. When he glanced back, again, I managed a small smile and he seemed happier for it.

That must be why he does it, I realized, when making him feel better made me feel a little less empty.

The car pulled to a stop in front of a fairly Italian styled home, the garden out front neatly tailored and a white, metal fence lining the outside. Francis opened the door for me, a luggage of mine already in hand. I grabbed my backpack from the backseat, rounding out the total collection of things I had brought with me. Francis let me lead the path to the door, though it felt more like walking to an execution, what with the somber tension in the air. The rain had stopped, but dark clouds still hung threateningly overhead.

It only took a few knocks on the door before it swung open and revealed a young man, his bubbly counterpart hovering closely behind him. A scowl rested on his face as he looked over the two of us, though it seemed to soften just a touch when he came to see my face. He didn’t say anything when he stepped aside and let us into the house.

The bubbly one introduced himself as Feliciano, which surprised me, since our mother had always insisted he was a ball of anxiety and undeterred rage. The other was Lovino, who simply grunted when Feliciano gave me his name, arms crossed over his chest. Feliciano showed me to my room and quickly left me there after to settle in. I set my bags aside, but I had no intention to unpack them right now. I hovered at the door, straining to hear the conversation happening on the floor below.

“How is he handling this?” Feliciano asked, a tint of sadness in his voice. “After Mama, he must have been heart broken.”

“Broken, _oui_ , though I cannot say it was centered within the heart,” Francis replied, softly. “Marcello is very fragile right now. He may become very difficult very soon and for a long time. We really cannot gauge how this may affect him. He will need constant attention and care. Taking on the responsibility of a child is a daunting task, but one of this magnitude is perhaps _trop à faire_ ; Too much to do-”

“What are you trying to say?” Lovino demanded, a low threat hovering in his tone.

“I just think perhaps there are people more prepared to deal with-” Francis began, only to have Lovino cut him off, a little more forcefully than necessary.

“Listen to me, you cheese smelling son of a _bitch_! If you think for _one second_ -”

“ _Fratello_!” Feliciano hissed and all the voices stopped for a moment, likely all their heads turned up to the second floor, as if expecting me to reveal myself any moment. After a moment of tense silence, Lovino continued his rant, more quietly if not without any less venom.

“Marcello is _familia_ and we take care of our own,” he said, “He is our responsibility, hardships and all.”

“ _Oui,_ but that is all he is to you,” Francis tried to reason, “A responsibility. There are people who would happily treat him as their own child and may even-”

“They might exist, but that backwater system is not necessarily gonna get him to one of them,” Lovino cut in. “He’s staying with us.”

“ _Si_ ,” Feliciano agreed, less angrily but equally as sure, “We will take care of him.”

“Very well,” Francis sighed, “I will need to make occasional visits to check his progress. The court date is next Wednesday, though it is mostly a formality. If either or both of you wish to legally adopt the boy in the near future, one of you should stop by my office and we can begin working on the paperwork. You already have my number, so feel free to call if you have any questions, either about Marcello or the process.”

Two voices continued to have a conversation, but it was mostly superficial and I was far more concerned with the approaching sound of footsteps. Darting across the room, I began emptying my backpack in an attempt to look like I was busy.

“You don’t have to pretend like you weren’t listening, Kid. I already know you were.”

I froze for a moment, a t-shirt still in my hands, before I glanced over my shoulder to take in the sight of the elder Italian. Lovino didn’t look angry; He was maybe bored, if anything. I glanced away, unable to meet the steady gaze aimed at me and chose to distract myself by sitting on the edge of the bed and fiddling with the shirt in my hand.

“ _Mi dispiace. Ero curioso._ ” _I’m sorry. I was curious._

Lovino’s eyes lit up a bit with the action, but he was careful to keep from showing too much change. “You speak Italian?”

“A little. What I could pick up from Mama. What I could pick up in school.” I remembered my mother getting disgusted at my pronunciation one night shortly after I’d started the class. Scolded me and told memy brothers wouldn’t have failed at such a task. She questioned whether I was really Italian at all. My fingers gripped the t-shirt in my hand a little tighter at the memory. I’d quit the class the very next day. My mother was not going to be impressed by my failed attempts, so my knowledge remained limited to what I’d heard in the world around me.

Lovino crossed the room and settled on the bed next to me, hands placed behind him to keep himself upright. “ _Mamma un po ' di italiano insegnato?_ ” _Mama taught you a bit of Italian?_

I shook my head. " _Non di proposito. Ha detto che non era-_ ” _Not on purpose. She said I wasn’t-_ I paused at this point, trying to rack my brain for the words I was missing. It was frustrating to be sitting here with someone who my mother had always insisted was God’s gift to the Mediterranean and not be able to keep up a simple conversation. I could hear her voice in my head, mocking me for making such a fool of myself. “… Good enough. I wasn’t good enough at it to butcher her language.”

Lovino seemed to tense beside me, his brow furrowing in disgust and I felt his disappointment in me the same I had felt hers way back then, too. I was considering just not using the skill at all, but he broke in before I could finish the thought. “ _Non era a_ _bbastanza buono._ It wasn’t good enough. Say it.”

I glanced over at him. His expression had mostly melted back into neutrality, but I could feel a touch of that earlier disgust still linger, as if waiting to strike at any moment. I decided to play along, expecting he would make fun of me for it and just accepting my fate. “ _Non era abba… Non era abbasta..._ ”

“ _Abbastanza buono_ ,” Lovino repeated, drawing out the sounds so that I could grasp it better. “ _Abba-stanza buo-no_. Try again”

“ _Abba… Stanza buono?_ ” Lovino seemed content with that, nodding slightly.

“Good. Now the whole thing.”

“ _Non era abbastanza buono?_ ”

I complied with the request, earning myself some ruffled hair for my efforts. “ _Bravo ragazzo._ ”

“ _Fratello_?” We both glanced towards the door to see Feliciano had finished showing out Francis and was standing in the doorway, rocking slightly on his heels. “I was going to come see if I should make dinner… Were you speaking Italian?”

“No!” Lovino was suddenly to his feet, anger filling in his features like chocolate in a mold.

“You _hate it_ when I use Italian!” Feliciano objected. “You’re always telling me that we’re in _America_ and that we have to speak _American_! Even at home!”

“Because you do!” Lovino hissed, ushering his pouty baby brother out of the room. “Now go get started on dinner!”

“How come he gets to-?” Feliciano starts, but by then the two were beyond my door and most of the way down the hall and I didn’t have any interest in trying to keep in touch with the rest of the conversation. Lying back on my bed, I stared up at the ceiling, letting my thoughts and numbness was over me. The last few moments ran in my mind, the brief exchange between myself and my brother playing on repeat while half-buried by so many other things. My mother had never thought I was good enough, but my brother – The absolute apple of her eye – did. And he didn’t even know who I am. It didn’t matter though, because to him I was enough. Something slid down my face and when I brought my fingers up to touch it, they came back wet. I didn’t feel sad, though. Or maybe I did, but it wasn’t a noticeable sadness. It was the kind that hovered in the recesses of my mind. What I really felt, above all else, was confused.

At some point, Feliciano came to fetch me, but I pretended to be asleep and he didn’t bother to wake me, that time. I stared at the wall facing away from the door, the darkness only interrupted by the soft touch of a sliver of light coming in from the hallway. A few times, my brothers would walk past the room and the sliver would disappear, for just a moment, but then it would come back, just as resilient as it had been before. It was so small and so insignificant in comparison to the darkness around it, but the shadows still shied away, as if wasn’t they who could easily snuff out the tiny thing.

Once the house had settled, I crept quietly down the stairs, careful not to make a sound lest my brothers be light sleepers. I made my way to the kitchen and a quick glance in the fridge showed Feliciano had stored the leftovers for me and had even written a little note saying I was welcome to anything I could find. I eyed the full plate of food left for me and felt a bit sick at just the idea of eating it. I found a container of bruschetta closer to the back of the fridge and decided to eat that, instead.

Sitting at the table with the bruschetta and a plate of bread slices, I watched the rain falling outside the small window over the sink. It had started up again at some point, though the drizzles were coming down lighter than they had that afternoon. It reminded me of when I would do this same thing at home, waiting until long after my mother had passed out to fix whatever I could find in the house. I would sit at my own kitchen table and watch the rain patter against our tiny window above the sink. Everything else was so different, though. The fridge here was plentiful while the one at home had barely had crumbs littering it. Everything here was clean and pristine while my own house had been a pigsty. This house was kept by kind strangers while mine had been kept by an estranged kin. I let myself chuckle a little at that, but it was tainted by bitterness.

I wasn’t feeling like eating any more and I put the remaining bruschetta away before making my way just as quietly back up the stairs. I closed the door behind me this time, separating myself from the house and the people I did not know. As I settled down in the bed, I realized the sliver of light was now gone. In my absence, the darkness had consumed it. I tried not to think about it as I settled into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry if you are interested in this story and wish to see more, but I welcome people to keep it going if they have any ideas. I would love to see how some of you end up treating Marcello in your own works.


End file.
